


The Artist

by Mettaton_Ex



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artist Dirk, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, M/M, Muse Jake, Rating May Change, This is my first DirkJake fic I'm a little nervous, idek, slow burning romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mettaton_Ex/pseuds/Mettaton_Ex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The only real inspiration you could get was at day break, when the inky blue night sky bled into the cotton candy purples and pinks of dawn. You liked how, in your new found home, the first rays of sun sliced through the clouds and trespassed into your garden, coating the grass, and the crumbling brick wall and the partially rusted metal gate with a warm, yellow glow.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>This was the main reason you chose to live where you did, as silly as it sounded. The aesthetics of the small town in a country thousands of miles away from where you grew up, and where you had now taken residence stood out through the concrete jungles filled with corporate cats and city slickers, and the suburban neighbourhoods containing bitchy soccer moms and bratty, middle class white kids who complained about piano recitals and the fact that they didn't get the latest XBox generation. It was beautiful, and, for someone who only grew up around the painful simplicity that was the city, it was perfect.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
>  I hope you enjoy this!  
> This is actually an idea that has been brewing for longer than Inertia has, and I've only recently worked up the nerve to shape it into something close to a story
> 
> I might need someone who's fluent in Spanish to give me a hand with the translations, so far I'm relying on various translating sites and I don't think they'll be especially trustworthy  
> So give me a shout on my tumblr if you can help!! <3
> 
> Also, any speech that's in italics is supposed to be Spanish, unless otherwise indicated

Mornings weren’t really your forte, for the simple reason that you hated getting up at the crack of ass and having to function.  
However, you found that the only real inspiration you could get was at day break, when the inky blue night sky bled into the cotton candy purples and pinks of dawn. You liked how, in your new found home, the first rays of sun sliced through the clouds and trespassed into your garden, coating the grass, and the crumbling brick wall and the partially rusted metal gate with a warm, yellow glow.

This was the main reason you chose to live where you did, as silly as it sounded. The aesthetics of the small town in a country thousands of miles away from where you grew up, and where you had now taken residence stood out through the concrete jungles filled with corporate cats and city slickers, and the suburban neighbourhoods containing bitchy soccer moms and bratty, middle class white kids who complained about piano recitals and the fact that they didn’t get the latest XBox generation. It was beautiful, and, for someone who only grew up around the painful simplicity that was the city, it was _perfect_.

Life in this town didn’t move nearly as fast, you’d found. For the first time you’d found yourself able to walk slowly down the street, pause, and just breathe. You weren’t used to it, but it sure was lovely. Everyone knew everyone, here, and where you thought you’d be the awkward, unwelcome black sheep, and outsider of the community, you were wrong. Although you weren’t invited to their little social gatherings, and you weren’t made aware about the tiny festivals the place had until the day, when you were walking through town doing your grocery shopping, and were suddenly bombarded by streamers and loud music, and the slightly-too-strong smell of spices and alcohol, you felt welcome with open arms.

 It was hard to believe such a small place could be so colourful at times. It reminded you of your city home, but this place was ‘home’ to you now, you supposed. You remembered how your brothers and yourself would have parties, for no reason whatsoever other than to celebrate life, in your quiet, ‘completely ironic’ ways. Some days it could be ‘ because someone must have had a birthday today’, and others it was ‘because we paid off the rent early this month’. Either way, colour has been a part of your life since you were quite small indeed.  
Perhaps this is what made you become an artist. And maybe that’s why you’re so eager to find the perfect muse.

   
As always, you were woken to the sound of your alarm ringing obnoxiously, and the chirping of birds next to your window. Normally you liked birds. Hell, you thought birds were the shit, just…not today. _Fuck_ birds right now, because you really, really wanted to go back to sleep. Fuck painting, fuck how nice it probably was, and fuck paying off your mortgage for this place. You needed to sleep. Worries could come later.

It became quickly evident, however, that this would not be happening, because as soon as your head hit the pillow again, you were wide awake. You groaned loudly, sure that a  foul profanity had found it’s way into the noise, somehow.  
There you were, lying in bed, the sun streaming through a crack in your curtains, at six in the morning.

 _Ugh_.

You thought you'd left this behind when you graduated.

Maybe it could’ve been worse..? _At least it wasn’t cold_ , you thought. Oh boy, getting up during winter would be a Herculean task. With this thought in your mind and the sunlight casting offensively bright lines across your room, you hauled your dead-weight ass out of bed. Or at least into a sitting position. It was taking all your strength not to just slump back down again.  
Like you said. You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person. But, needs must, and you were convinced that getting up this early would benefit you in some way, eventually.

   
It took another ten minutes before you actually gained enough inner strength to get out of your warm bed, and place your feet onto the cold ground. Jesus, it was awful. You really wanted to just get back into bed. Maybe stay there for the rest of the day. Or forever. The latter being more appealing. But even in your sleep deprived state, you knew that you’d get too bored holed up in bed for more than a few hours, so you pushed the thought of sleeping away and took the first few painful steps across the cold floorboards towards the door. You really did have to invest in carpets.

  
The thought of coffee crossed your mind. While the notion didn’t entirely perk you up, it gave your limbs enough motivation to keep dragging you through the house towards the kitchen and, more importantly, the kettle. You thanked whatever deity that was out there that you actually remembered to stock up on coffee before you ran out, otherwise you’d be out of the only thing that actually kept you functional anymore. With the kettle boiled, you set to making yourself a black coffee. Dark and bitter, just like your personality, your younger brother always used to joke. He never found it funny when you socked him in the arm afterwards, though.

You took a sip of your newly made coffee, and… _yeah_. Yeah, now that you had some fuel, you kind of felt like the day was going to go a little bit better. Thank the heavens for small pleasures.

Finally armed with coffee, you went to the window and gazed out across the street. The sun wasn’t quite up all the way; the upper half of the houses were awash in bright light but the road below was in shadow. You could feel the effects of the coffee starting to kick in, as your eyes became more able to pick out little details in the scenery. There was a white rooster on the cobblestone street, preening and looking like he owned everything. _What the fuck was it doing up this early_ , you thought. _Damn birds._

  
But the birds, and complaining about them could wait until later, because you had work to do.  
Well, you didn't. Not in the strictest sense, painting was something you did in your free time. It just so happened that you could sell them off at a somewhat reasonable price. This month had been kind of difficult, you had only sold one painting, and that one not even for that much. You had to make this one a good painting. Perhaps you'd try a new place to paint, rather than this window. The view was nice enough, but it was always the same. You preferred painting portraits, anyway. Perhaps you could ask someone in town to be a model?  
Hah, yeah right.  
There was never a face pretty enough for you to want to paint. Besides. You? Talk to people you don't know with the intention of spending excessive amounts of time with them wearing little to no clothes? 

Them, you mean. They'd be the nude ones. You'd be wearing clothes.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

 

Your free hand trailed over the unused canvas that was propped on your easel and you gave it a borderline glare. Perhaps if you’d have actually started working by now, you wouldn’t have been in the ‘wants to paint but doesn’t want to paint’ kind of situation. You looked again at the garden.  It really was beautiful. You were glad you chose the right house. It was previously owned by an old couple who loved gardening, and they were thrilled when you came to the house to look around, and you were sold on the garden, their pride and joy. At least, you think they were thrilled, you spoke very little Spanish at the time, but it wasn’t like they seemed upset that you were buying the house from them. You called it your muse, the garden, but it could be distracting as well; you’d catch yourself nearly twenty minutes into your work, staring off into the landscape instead of, well, working. Not that you’d ever trade the garden for an apartment like the one you grew up in. Not a chance in hell.

  
Anyway, without much more than an idle thought, you picked up the easel and its canvas in both hands, manoeuvred it awkwardly to the other side of the huge living room, and propped it in front of the huge window opposite the first huge window. There were far too many windows in this house, and they were far too big for their own good. Next, obviously, were the paints, and you transferred them, finally sitting down with your coffee in your hand. The other window peered out onto the back yard, with the adjoining garden separated by an pale wood fence. You weren’t sure who lived there, and you didn’t care to know, instead ignoring the space entirely. It was probably an old couple, just like the people who lived here before you. They kept to themselves, and you kept to yourself. It was fine, no big deal.

But as you put your coffee down, and started painting, you noticed something. As you began to apply a wash for the background, something green and moving caught your eye. Or more specifically, something green, moving, and really, obnoxiously loud caught your eye. You put down the flat-edge that you were painting with and peered through the glare of the early morning sun. It was coming from the garden opposite yours. On the other side of the fence, hanging up laundry on the laundry line, was a young man. The green you noticed was his jacket, billowing a little with how fast he darted from one place to the next with bed sheets and pillowcases. He had a stupid, goofy grin on his face, and stupid, nerdy glasses that he kept pushing up his nose. However, he was probably the most interesting part of the landscape, adding movement to the piece. And so, almost without realising, you painted the stupid green jacketed fool into your painting, all with him being none the wiser. Which was good, really. You didn’t want to be dragged into a conversation that you didn’t want to be a part of if he caught you.

  
You didn’t spend too long on painting him-- ten minutes, tops; enough time to get in the forest green on his jacket and the dark tan of his skin behind the beechwood fence, and he was gone, leaving his white sheets and black boxers pegged out on the washing line and flapping slightly in the breeze. He was only a blur at this point, but you were sure you’d be able to put in some details here and there-- after all, if you lived next to him (without knowing, mind you) you would inevitably be seeing him again, possibly even hanging out his washing like today.

  
Eventually, as you put in the tones of the scene before you over the next hour or so and watched the cotton candy pink and pale citrine yellow blur into powder blue and duck egg, you came up with a vague, if a little remedial at this point, painting of your back yard.  
Smiling, you rubbed your dirty hands on your pyjama pants (you forgot to get dressed today, you realised grimly), and you stood, picking up your long empty coffee mug and taking it into the kitchen to abandon in the otherwise empty sink for goodness knows how long.

  
  
This carried on for days, weeks even. You found yourself in a cycle; you would wake up, get coffee, and sit in front of your canvas to paint the same fucking scene as you always did when you got stuck in an artist’s block, and he would come outside, flit about like a blue assed fly putting up washing and occasionally playing with what looked like a huge white dog when it jumped up before stopping and going back inside, just as you had finished a significant part of the canvas.

  
By now, you paid barely any attention to the scenery, but kept paying special attention to the man, and before long his fluid figure had practically become the figurehead for multiple pieces you had painted. You almost wanted the scrap the rest and leave yourself with the paintings of your neighbour, each one more detailed and considerate than the one preceding it.  
You left the painting to dry, and to stink up your living room with the smell of oil paints and turpentine.

   
You didn’t see the man again for at least a day.

You were out, sat outside a small cafe place with a coffee and a sketchpad, etching out people walking past. People were used to this, at this point, and mostly referred to you as _el artista_ \- the artist. Which suited you fine; it was better than associating you with your day job of fixing the townspeople’s cars-- You personally preferred _artista_ to _mecanico_ , but that was just you. It sounded a little more romantic.

He was there, carrying some groceries in a paper bag and crossing the road to your side. He must have seen someone, because he waved at a long haired girl stood in the doorway of the cafe (she must have been a waitress) and tried his best not to spill his groceries when he ran over to her.  
It was interesting to see what your neighbour looked like when he wasn’t moving around at the speed of light. His hair was still ridiculous and his skin still a rich brown, but you never realised that his eyes shone dark green, even from here, like a pool in the middle of a deep forest, framed by pitch black lashes that surely couldn’t have been natural. His manner, bone structure and the tone of his muscles seen on his calves and no doubt on the rest of his body indicated to you one thing; you needed to paint him, properly.

He was practically your muse, anyway. And yet, you didn’t know his name.

  
You took this opportunity to start on any future portraits of your destined muse, despite him not actually knowing, and you sketched his features for a few minutes.

_“Hey, American artist!”_

 You looked up with a start at whoever was addressing you, and it took you until he made his way over realise it was the young man, your neighbour. Your muse. The guy you were drawing.

You flipped the book shit quickly and with a fluster. _“Hello?”_ You had been living in this town for a while now, but were still slow in the process of learning the language, and tried to keep conversations as short as possible. Thinking in English and then talking in Spanish was difficult, especially with how quickly the people here tended to talk. You did learn Spanish through high school, but it was difficult to remember everything. You were getting somewhere, though.

 _“We haven’t met. I’m Jake English!”_ He thrust a hand out towards you, and you blinked at it for a moment behind your shades, debating on whether you wanted to shake his hand or keep on acting like he was just a stranger, rather than a man you painted practically every day.

 _“Dirk Strider.”_ You decided to take his hand, only briefly, and almost immediately regretted it. His tanned hand clasped your freckled one tightly and shook with an iron grip, like he was determined to pull your arm out of it’s socket.

  
He let go after a moment, and you were never so glad to have your hand back to yourself. _“You live next to me, don’t you?”_ You were trying as quickly as you could to work out what he was saying in your head, and then work out how to say it back in Spanish before you realised what he said.  
  
“Uh,” Had he seen you painting him? The smile on his face didn’t betray what he was thinking, oddly, so it was hard to say. _“I don’t know.”_ How did you say that you were an insular sonofabitch who stayed inside and painted strangers like a fucking weirdo when you didn’t have to work in Spanish? _“I didn’t notice..”_

Jake laughed good naturedly and sat down at the table beside you, turning the chair to face you. _“It’s fine!”_ He then said something else, but you only caught the word ‘ _painting_ ’ and ‘ _garden_ ’, and you got a little worried. He hadn’t seen you painting him, had he? You _really_ didn’t want to look like a creep.

“ _Sorry_ ,” You said, before continuing a little hesitantly. “ _I’m still learning, I’m not very good_.” Typical foreigner, he was probably thinking, not bothering to learn the language until it was too late.

But he smiled instead. _“It’s fine!”_ He repeated, and paused to think, continuing in English this time. “I can speak English. I’m not so good, though.”

Better than you were at his language. Possibly better than you were at _your_ language. At least you knew you could communicate with him easier. “You’re way better than I am at Spanish. I’m fuckin’ hopeless.”

Another laugh. “I learned from old movies and through lessons at school. My _abuelo_ was English, so I learned from him before he passed, also.”

“I’m sorry-” You began to say, but he slapped your arm lightly, obviously intending to cut you off lightheartedly.

“It’s _fine_ , old chap--” He had definitely learned that from an old movie. “It was a long time ago.”

“Even so. You’re still good, even considering that.”

“ _Gracias_ \-- I prefer Spanish, though.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

   
Jake smiled, grateful. “ _What’s in the sketchbook?_ ” He peered over your shoulder at your sketchpad, and in a flash of movement you flipped it shut. You didn’t want to have to explain yourself and the weird sketches of him in there. Then again, flipping it shut like that probably looked remarkably suspicious too.

“ _Nothing--_ ” You couldn’t find a way to excuse yourself in Spanish, so you gave up and hopelessly continued in English. “There’s nothing important in there, it’s just my artist’s sketchbook. Y’all gotta understand that shit’s important. I'd defend it with my life.”

“‘Y’all’?” He echoed, with another smile creeping onto his face. Your face stayed straight but you could feel yourself growing embarrassed.

“That’s what we American’s say. We’re all cowboy hats and saloons and tumbleweeds over there, real Texas regulars.” It probably occurred to you that he didn’t understand what half of that meant. "Shoot outs every Friday and then through the saloon doors for moonshine in the evening with the sheriff and his deputy."

He laughed, said something in Spanish that you, too, didn’t understand, and then something in English that you did. “Do you do people?”

 _Not until the third date-- no, don’t say that, you fucking goon._ “You mean draw and paint?” He nodded. “Nah. I want to, but no. Can’t find anyone that I’d really like to paint.” Your hands fiddled with the ring binding of the sketchbook, feeling a little anxious and not knowing why. Probably because you were lying, and you had drawn someone recently. Specifically, him.

“Hm…Me?” He gestured to himself. You quirked an eyebrow.

“You?”

“I’ll become your model?”

 _  
Oh Jesus, really?_ An opportunity was literally being handed to you on a plate, you couldn’t quite believe your luck! “What?”

 “I can… _qué es_...be your muse?

So you repeated, rather intelligently. “What?”

You weren’t normally this bad, but you didn’t expect anything like a guy just waltzing up and electing himself to be your model within five minutes of introducing himself. An opportunity like this seemed way too convenient. It was weird.  
However, even with your doubt and stupid echoes of ‘ _what_ ’, Jake seemed unaffected and still grinned at you with that overbite you hadn’t noticed before sticking out ever so slightly. “I’ll pose for you! As it’s so difficult to find a suitable model, here.”  
Jeez, was he sure? He seemed to read your mind, here, because he continued. “I live next door; it will be fine!”

“That’s… thank you.” You wanted to say a lot more, ask again if he was sure, whether he knew you had painted him without his knowledge… but you settled with ‘thank you’. “You really don’t have to, it’s kind of boring, keepin’ the same pose for a long time.”

He made a ‘pssh’ sound and flapped his hand. “It will be fun! Plus, as long as I can speak, I can teach you my tongue! Right?”

  
Right… you weren’t so good with talking to people, even on a one to one basis if it was face to face, so you were sure he’d be doing most of the talking. “I s’pose so-- I don’t have much money to pay you--”

“I’m doing it for enjoyment! It is an excellent bonding activity, isn’t it?”

“It’s one way to bond, sure.”  Not exactly the most convenient way, though.

“ _Muy bien!_ ” Somehow his grin widened even more, and he stood up with a start, clapping his hand on your back in a way that was probably friendly, but just left a stinging sensation.  The guy didn’t know his own strength. “I’ll see you soon, old chap! How is tomorrow?”

“Uh. Good? Good. Tomorrow is good. Twelve?”

“Do you not wake up earlier?” He asked, before he (for some reason) caught and corrected himself. “ _Digo_ \-- is that how late you get up?”

For a second there, you thought he knew you had been painting him. That was a close one. “Not really. I normally get up early to paint, but…” You ended it with a shrug. “We can do earlier. I don’t care, I’m flexible.”

“Eight?”

“Fine, sure.” It was a Sunday tomorrow, and you had been hoping for a lie in, but you supposed that could wait. It wasn’t going to kill you to get up earlier, again. Besides, the local church bell would be ringing from eight onwards until two in the afternoon, so there wouldn’t be much of a chance of you having a late morning anyway. “I’m looking forward to it.” No, no, that’s weird. You don’t say that to a guy you’re going to be using as a model. That’s so weird.

“Me too!” He didn’t seem too bothered, at least. “Until tomorrow, my good man!” He saluted, and picked up his groceries.

And he was gone.

  
You weren’t sure what it was, but the whole exchange left you a little dazed and confused, trying to figure out if it was actually real, and that someone had actually agreed to be your model within five minutes of talking to you.  
That certainly wasn’t to say that you didn’t appreciate it, and you left after you finished the lukewarm coffee that sat abandoned on your table.

Even with your confusion, you were interested. Interested in the strange Spanish man who spoke English better than you did most of the time, and who had a grip strong enough to break someone’s arm, if he were so inclined to do so.

You had a feeling this would turn out to be pretty intriguing.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me at porrimspantyhose.tumblr.com!
> 
> Digo= I say


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